Of Love and Other Daemons
by Ava Caita
Summary: Written for the 'Alternative Couples Fanfiction Exchange'. Christine and Raoul say goodbye for the last time in PerrosGuirec or so they believe. Leroux inspired!


**Disclaimer:** Gaston Leroux's brilliant work, _Le fantôme de l'opéra_ is in the public domain. All recognisable characters belong to M. Leroux. Any new characters belong to me. There are no copyrights on which to be infringing. Mmm, public domain fanfic!

**A/N:** This chapter is within the mythology and background I've been creating for young Mlle. Christine Daaé. At the moment it is a stand-alone piece for the challenge, but in future will be expanded and developed into its own full-length tale. It begins under the educated guess that Christine was born in 1863 (which would make her 18 at the time of the well-known story), she lives with her Papa in Perros-Guirec, and as an added bonus she has the Sight. Dedicated lovingly to Beelicious.

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**Of Love and Other Daemons¤**

_Mes espoirs sont si hauts que ton baiser pourrait me tuer,_

_Ainsi ne me tueras-tu pas? Ainsi je mourrai heureux._

- Dashboard Confessionals

Christine stood, a solitary figure against the fading backdrop of sunset, and listened as the waves crashed determinedly against the sandy beach of Perros-Guirec. Every other creature was asleep somewhere inland. She imagined that the mere people and other sea-dwellers were still swimming with endless movement in the empty void. It stretched as far as she could see below the small knoll on which she remained motionless. Darker than the encroaching night. A breeze, closer to that of someone's breathing, stroked her cheek and played in the golden light of her curls.

She was in her fourteenth year and knew it was forbidden to be out so late, but Papa was forgiving and Raoul had promised to meet her and give her something special before he walked out of her life forever. In her heart, she hoped for a real kiss (not simply one customarily brushed against her cheek), but her head reminded her that she was almost an orphan and he more near to a prince. Princes only kissed common girls in the stories that Papa told.

Sighing then, she wrapped her thin arms more tightly around herself. The dying light had brought with it an opportunity for darkness to reclaim the land. Her fingertips were chilling and she tried, somewhat successfully, to quell the shivering that started in her boots and ran up her spine. And cursed herself quietly for not havfing sense enough to bring a shawl. From the dusky path behind her, she heard the familiar strong steps of a young boy — young man, really — as he made his way towards her.

"Christine!" he shouted, his familiar voice bringing its own shivers to her heart. "Close your eyes, Christine, I've brought you a present as promised."

Closing her eyes tight and not turning around, Christine waited. Her breathing became quicker as did the pace of Raoul's footsteps. She dared not return his excited call for fear he would hear in her fluttering murmurings how she longed to feel his lips on hers.

When at last he touched her shoulder, she could feel the warmth from his hand seep through the material of her dress. It was the most comforting feeling she'd known for a long time. Since her Mama's death, so many years ago, only her Papa's violin playing could reach the deepest parts of her soul. Christine smiled again knowing that Raoul was as important to her as her father's playing or her Mama's story-telling. In a way, his presence felt like home, somehow. Warm and stable and it would all be taken from her when he went to join his ship in Brest and then travel the world. For the most fleeting of moments, she wished girls were allowed in the Navy so that she could join him in his travels. To stay near him and breathe the salty air together.

Raoul, rough in his boyish excitement, turned Christine to face him. She kept her eyes squeezed shut and gave in to the smell of brine and a boy who'd just scrubbed with soap. She remembered telling him, two years ago, that the cologne men wore gave her rash. Too heavy. Too invasive. From that moment forward, Raoul had only washed and dried. And she knew today he'd done it to impress her. Wanting to throw her arms about his neck and claim unending devotion, Christine checked herself again and tried to memorise every detail of that scent.

"Can I open my eyes yet?" she asked, her voice barely audible. Her dress hem made a soft susurrus in the wind. Her nervous fingers ran to smooth out the material. "Raoul?"

He laughed. Christine noted that his voice had moved since they first met from a register slightly lower than her own into a deeper, richer, baritone. It met her ears like chocolate met her lips, rewarding and sweet.

She waited, anticipation and want growing, for him to speak. At last, he said, "You've never liked surprises, have you?"

No, she never had. Too many of the surprises in her life were filled with horror. Her Mama's untimely death when she was six was only the first in a long string of painful 'surprises'. Christine had never told him all of her secrets. She would have done, if he'd only asked. Raoul was good and pure and knew nothing of the things that walked about under the guise of glamour.

Raoul took her wrist lightly and pulled Christine closer to him. He bent towards her ear and she blushed. The heat from his face could be felt against her neck. He whispered, his voice so rich it was a pity he did not sing, "Open your hand." She obeyed.

A soft material was placed on her palm and Raoul closed her fingers gently around the cylindrical shape. "Now you can open your eyes."

Christine laughed at him. "It's so dark that I can hardly see what you've given me."

"Turn facing West. A few rays of sunlight will give you enough to see by. Or we could sneak to the church and stand close to the prayer candles."

Turning again, she looked at the gift in her hand. At first she didn't notice the rolled programme, for Raoul had tied it neatly with her red silk scarf. She knew he'd meant to be touching. Maybe even romantic for it was the same scarf he'd gone to fetch from the sea when they'd first met. However, Raoul would never guess, nor be told, that it was the scarf that Sorin had given her at their last parting. And Christine would never reveal that she'd had similar feelings towards the Romani boy with eyes that mirrored what hers saw when no one else's did.

Trying to hide her emotion, Christine quickly untied the scarf and tucked it deep into her pocket. Then, unfolding the paper carefully, she read: 'Carmen - 1875' in bold type across the top. An opera programme. Raoul had given her an opera programme and she had no idea what its significance. Had Raoul found out about her and her Papa's travels with Sorin and his family? Could he guess that this particular opera filled her with anger that a Parisian composer had made the gypsy heroine into a mockery of a people she loved very much? No. Raoul, too sweet and caring, was only trying to show he knew her. He did not.

"Thank you, Raoul," was all she could manage. Her heart still ached a little from the surprise of seeing that red scarf. She felt it should be burned. Too many partings were attended by that piece of woven silk.

She watched him and saw how his mouth fell with disappointment. Her hand reached out to touch his broadening shoulder. "It is a very lovely gift. I shall treasure it always."

"I thought you might like something from Paris," he said. His smile returned at the sincerity of her words. "You might not know this, but Monsieur Bizet began writing this very score the year of your birth."

His enthusiasm and seriousness caused Christine to laugh and smile with him. "How on earth did you remember that?"

"One never forgets the important things in life," he said, winking. "One day, Christine, when we are older, I will see you on the stage of the Opéra-Comique. You will be the toast of Paris. Your Papa told me you would. I've heard you sing and I believe him."

Something between sadness and longing reminded Christine that Raoul would watch her on-stage from his velvet-lined box far away from the less privileged patrons. Beside him would sit his beautiful young wife. She would be a Marquise. Their two small children would not attend the performance, but everyone would know their angelic faces and soft cornhusk-coloured curls.

There was a dark look in Christine's eyes that she prayed Raoul wouldn't notice. Hastily, she curtsied. "Thank you, kind monsieur, for both your gift and your compliments."

Raoul took her hand in his own, rubbing it a little to give her warmth. "I'll wait for you, Christine, if you'll promise to keep me in your heart."

Christine began to tremble and pulled her hand out of his grasp. Such promises meant nothing to her. She knew what title he carried and the responsibilities it demanded. It took all her strength not to take his words to heart and lock them there until he brought them to fruition.

"It's getting late, Raoul," she said, stepping away from his adolescent dreams and sugar-spun promise. "I must get back to Papa before I get myself into trouble. Madame Valerius, you know." She added the last by way of explanation.

In his eyes, she could see a genuine hurt, but Christine could not lie to him. She could not promise something only she could fulfil and she refused to hold him to something society would not allow him to fulfil.

"Good-night, sweet prince," she whispered before turning to walk back to her house. Back to her music and Papa and her duty to the Valerius household. All thought of forbidden kisses eluded her as her steps put her farther from her loved ones' reach.

As she made her way quickly down the path from the knoll, she wiped away the tears that stung the corners of her eyes with the silk scarf that meant everything and nothing. Tonight, she would burn it. Watching its destruction in the flames of their little coal furnace would give her a sense of freedom. And it would mean she could begin to live again.

¤The title is an homage to author Gabriel García Márquez. If you haven't read the tome of the same name, go now! Within the covers are religion, exorcism, rabies, and worst of all: love.


End file.
